Hell's Diva

by Anna J.

  Later that night, the police dispatcher at the thirty fourth precinct received a call that a black male was found dead on a Harlem sidewalk, apparently from jumping off the roof, committing suicide. The caller told the dispatcher that it happened on 138th and Morningside.

  Lou closed his eyes and shook his head. Mecca wanted to scream, but she didn’t. She would have never guessed that Shamel would cheat on her. Especially with Karmen, a girl that Mecca had grown to like. A girl she considered a friend. Shamel, the man she would have died for. A man whose ransom she didn’t hesitate to pay to his own cousins. A man she loved with all her heart and left her man for.

  “Let me ask you something, Mecca. If you knew or found out all this before you were shot, what would you have done with your life?”

  “I don’t know,” Mecca answered in a low tone with her head down.

  “I know. You would have killed them all. Wouldn’t you?” Lou yelled.

  Mecca simply shook her head. “I don’t know!”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind you would have killed them all. Still in all, Karmen did offer to help you change your life. It’s the least she could do even though she was having sex with your man,” Lou grinned, then continued, “So sinister are you humans, but, Mecca, there’s a lot more I have to show you. The worst is yet to come.”

  “How much worse could it get?” Mecca looked at him, astonished.

  “Beyond your wildest imagination. Shall we proceed?”

  Chapter Twenty

  It is better to dwell in the corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman and in a wide house.

  Proverbs 24:24

  Karmen limped into her Bushwick apartment looking as if she had been raped and beat up. Her nose had dried blood on it, her hair was tossed, and her red and black North Face was ripped after Shamel promised to buy her new clothes.

  “C’mon, Papi, why we gotta rip the North Face? I already let you punch me in the face. I like that coat.”

  “As soon as we do what we gotta do, I’m going to take you shopping, all right?” Shamel promised, pinching her cheek playfully and kissing her on the lips.

  “You promise?” Karmen asked in a childish tone.

  Shamel held up his left hand as if he were taking an oath in court. “I swear on everything I love.”

  Karmen limped into her bedroom where she found Kaheem sleeping. She turned the light on, brightening up the small tenement room with pink painted walls with posters of Nas, Mary J. Blige, and Fat Joe and his Terror Squad crew. She had pictures taped to the wall of her and her friends at the Puerto Rican Day parade, and a framed picture of her and Kaheem on the nightstand next to a digital clock radio beside the small bed. A nineteen-inch television sat on top of a small wooden shelf in the corner of the room next to a four-wheel shopping cart filled with clothes she washed at the Laundromat.

  Kaheem woke up when the light came on. Wiping the cold out of his eyes with both hands, he said in a groggy voice, “Hey, what’s up, ma, you all right?”

  Karmen took off her coat slowly as if she were in pain and rolled her eyes at Kaheem getting out of the bed. “Does it look like I’m all right? And what the fuck you doing in my house, you wasn’t going to help me come home. Those mu’fuckas was going to kill me.”

  Kaheem walked toward Karmen and tried to hug her. Karmen pushed him away from her.

  “Kaheem, get the fuck away from me. You ain’t shit.”

  “Listen, ma, I knew if I acted like I didn’t care they would let you go. They wouldn’t have gained nothing by killing you.” Kaheem tapped his temple with his index fingers grinning. “It was all part of my plan.”

  “So you gonna play games with my life? You rather risk me getting raped or killed than pay twenty or thirty G’s. Money you have, mu’fucka? If you loved me, you would have done the same thing Mecca did!”

  “How you think I know how to play this, Karmen?” Kaheem said. He stepped closer to her and whispered like someone else was in the house. “I wouldn’t have killed my cousin. I knew Mecca would have paid though.”

  Karmen acted as if she were shocked to hear what Kaheem said. “You did that shit, Ka?” Karmen asked loudly.

  Kaheem put his finger to his lip. “Shhh, Karmen. Damn, don’t let the whole Bushwick hear you. Yeah, I did it. Me and Born.”

  “Why you had to cut his face, though, Ka? That’s your cousin!”

  “Man, fuck that nigga. He don’t give a fuck about me and Born, all he care about is himself and Mecca. He lucky we ain’t body his ass. The nigga got soft anyway. He washed up.”

  Kaheem heard the squeak of the bedroom door being opened, and before he could grab his pants to get his gun, Shamel already had his silver and gray .40-caliber automatic pistol with a red beam pointed at Kaheem’s forehead. Shamel had tears in his eyes.

  “All the shit I did for you niggas and it’s fuck me, Ka? That’s how it is?”

  Kaheem held up protesting hands. “Son, it don’t gotta be this way, for real!”

  Shamel moved closer. “What way it gotta be then?” He looked at Karmen and spoke, “Karmen, go downstairs and wait for me.”

  Kaheem looked at her and Shamel, confused. Karmen did as she was told, angering him even more.

  “Karmen, where the fuck you going? Stay your ass right here. He ain’t your man!”

  Karmen kept walking and shot back, “You ain’t my man neither.”

  “Yo, Karmen! Fuck you, bitch.”

  Kaheem went to reach for his pants. “Son, don’t move, ’cause the next time you do, I’ma squeeze,” Shamel said, kicking Kaheem’s pants away from him. Shamel felt the gun in it as he did.

  “Why you snake me like that, Ka? I ain’t been nothing but good to y’all niggas. If you needed some paper you could have asked me. You ain’t have to do this. Then you gonna eat my food,” Shamel said quietly.

  Kaheem thought about why he envied his older cousin. He wasn’t attractive as Shamel was, but he wasn’t an ugly dude. He was a slim, brown-skinned, tall dude who favored Marlon Wayans. Shamel got all of the pretty chicks, while Kaheem and Born got the average hood rats. He always had more money than them and Kaheem was tired of being looked at as Shamel’s little cousin. He wanted his own identity. Because Kaheem and Born were born eight months apart, Born being the youngest, they resembled each other. Born was just shorter and darker, traits he got from his mother, while Kaheem favored their father.

  Trying to sound as if he wasn’t scared, Kaheem asked, “So you gonna kill me, Sha? I’ll give you the money back, son. I just needed a quick buck and I figured Mecca would cough it up.”

  “So why you pick me for bait?” Shamel yelled.

  Kaheem stood with his hands to his side. “Who else, son? Mecca don’t give a fuck about nobody. Not Tah Gunz or nobody except you and her aunt. Her aunt ain’t here so it’s you.”

  “Nigga, we supposed to be family!” Shamel said with tears rolling down his face.

  “I’m saying, son, I fucked up. I’m sorry, kid. What else can I say?” Kaheem pleaded.

  “Nothing.”

  Shamel squeezed the trigger and the first bullet hit Kaheem in the stomach, making him bend over forward. The second bullet caught him on the top of his head, shattering his skull and sending blood and brains out, landing on Karmen’s bed.

  Karmen sat in Shamel’s blue and silver Grand Am looking up at the window of her third-floor apartment. She watched as Shamel removed the sheet she used for curtains and lifted the window. Shamel looked out and then ducked his head back in, emerging with a black plastic garbage bag. He threw the bag on the fire escape, then climbed out. He leaned on the rail looking up and down the block to see if anyone was coming. The street was empty.

  Karmen could see the smoke from the cold air coming out of Shamel’s mouth fast. Shamel lifted the bag and threw it on a pile of garbage bags on the sidewalk in front of the building.

  Karmen waited another fifteen minutes, and then Shamel came out the front door carrying her sheets a
nd blanket. He walked over to the car and told Karmen to roll down the window.

  “Hold these. I’ll be back,” Shamel said in a low tone.

  Karmen grabbed the blanket and sheets then quickly rolled the window back up. She threw them on the backseat, then watched Shamel drag the garbage bag into the alley on the side of her building.

  He went so far into the alley that the dark night engulfed him and Karmen could not see him. A few seconds later, he emerged and skipped over to the driver’s side and got in. He pulled a cassette tape out of his glove compartment and put it in the tape player. He started the car up and sped off just as the Notorious B.I.G.’s voice barked, “Who shot ya?”

  Shamel dropped Karmen off at Mecca’s apartment and told Mecca he’d be back. Born was coming to see Shamel and his grandmother. Mecca was more than happy to let Karmen stay with her after Shamel told her what happened.

  “Let her lay low here for a few days, then she can go back home.”

  Before Shamel left, Mecca asked him if he was going to take the trip with her that weekend to see Ruby. Shamel touched his scar and said, “I ain’t ready to go see her yet. Not while I’m still a little bruised. Tell her I send my love and I’m definitely coming next month.”

  Mecca understood how he felt. She wouldn’t have wanted to see somebody she hadn’t seen in years with brand new wounds on his face, so she didn’t press the issue. Shamel had a lot on his plate right now dealing with the betrayal from his own blood, and already killing one and preparing to kill the other. It was a pill Mecca found hard to swallow.

  Shamel sat at the oval-shaped, black wooden table with his grandmother, with a plate of smoked turkey, rice, and garlic bread, waiting for Born to join them.

  “Where them boys at? Didn’t you tell them what I said?” Shamel’s grandmother asked, setting two plates on the table for Kaheem and Born.

  “I spoke to Brian (Borns birth name), but Kaheem I ain’t hear from,” Shamel lied.

  “They so hardheaded, those two,” his grandmother said, frustrated.

  Just then, Shamel heard keys and the door opened with Born walking in.

  He had on a Coogie sweater with red being the most outstanding color among the other colors that lined it. His Pelle Pelle jeans were pitch black and his suede Wallabee Clarks were died red. A red bandanna hung out of his back pocket.

  Shamel shook his head. Shamel knew Born used to be a Five Percenter, but since this Blood thing came to New York, a lot of Five Percenters turned Blood, and Born jumped on the bandwagon. It angered Shamel that Born didn’t at least put the bandanna away in the presence of their grandmother, but like his grandmother said, “Them boys are truly knuckleheads.”

  “Hey, Grandma. When you get back?” Born greeted his grandmother. He hugged her, then sat at the table and gave Shamel a low-toned, “What up, kid?”

  Shamel looked at him while chewing his food and simply nodded his head.

  Grandma tapped Born on his shoulder, “Go wash your hands, boy! What I tell you about that?” Born jumped up and bopped to the bathroom; all the while, Shamel watched him menacingly.

  “What’s gotten into you, Shamel?” Grandma asked, seeing the angry look on his face. Shamel forced a smile.

  “Nothing, Grandma. I was just wondering why Kaheem ain’t here.”

  “You boys like running the streets like it’s something good out here. Ain’t nothing but trouble out there and as long as you’re out there…”

  Shamel heard his grandmother talking but his mind was elsewhere. He watched as Born walked back to the table and sat down to start eating. Grandma slapped his hand.

  “Boy, say your grace! If you and your brother would have come at the same time, we could have all said grace together for the love of Jesus. You two need the Lord. All y’all need the Lord.”

  Born acted as if he were praying, then said, “Amen.” He knew not to argue with his grandmother about him not believing in a “Mystery God” or a “Spook.” He knew he had no wins with her so he just went along with what she said.

  “Where’s your brother, Brian?”

  “I don’t know, he probably out looking for Karmen. She disappeared,” Born said, looking down at his food.

  “Shoot. She probably tired of his crap. He ain’t got no job and he lay around on his tail all day. A woman ain’t going to constantly put up with no lazy man. A real woman at least,” Grandma commented.

  After they ate the meal with pound cake for dessert, Grandma cleaned off the table and went in the kitchen to wash the dishes. Born took out a cigarette from a pack of Newports he had in his pocket. He was about to light it when Shamel said, “Don’t do that, you know she ain’t with that smoking in here, and neither am I.”

  Born put it down and looked at Shamel curiously. “What’s up with you, son? You act like you ain’t got no holla for a nigga. Ice grillin’ me all night. I ain’t the nigga who did you wrong. I’m family, kid.” Born smiled.

  Shamel chuckled, “Family, huh?”

  Born stood up. “Grandma, I’ll be back.”

  “Where you going now?” Grandma yelled.

  Born walked to the door with Shamel in tow. “I’m going out to smoke a cigarette.”

  “Okay, baby!”

  Shamel and Born went in front of the building and stood in the foyer, and Born smoked his cigarette while leaning against the building mailboxes.

  “Sha, what’s up, son? You chillin’?”

  Shamel looked out the glass door entrance and exit of the building at passing cars and his Land Cruiser parked in front. Shamel blew into his hands, warming them. He had on a dark blue Polo knitted sweater, a blue Yankee fitted cap that was oversized and hung down almost over his eyes, black Polo jeans, and black leather-six-inch Timberlands.

  “I’m chilling, kid. Trying to get this paper.”

  Born blew out smoke from his mouth, nodding his head. “I hear that, son. Wassup with Mecca? I ain’t seen her in a while.”

  Shamel looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “She chilling. Same shit. Yo, Born, let’s take a ride to the weed spot real quick. I got a fifty bag.”

  Shamel knew Born wouldn’t turn a free smoke down. He was a serious weed fiend. He smoked so much he would make Snoop Dogg, Red Man, and Method Man say, “Dayum!”

  Born hopped off the mailboxes and followed Shamel to his Land Cruiser. Born was surprised when Shamel drove to the same weed spot he got kidnapped in front of on Pitkin and Miller Avenue. Quickly, he restrained his surprise on his face and looked out the passenger window.

  As Shamel pulled up, Born kept his eye on the street, avoiding eye contact with Shamel. Born saw a person standing in front of an alley beside the weed spot disguised as a grocery store. The person had long dreadlocks down to his shoulders. Some of the locks covered the face of the brown-skinned short person wearing a camouflage jacket and pants, with his hand in one pocket.

  “Born, duke got that smoke right there. Police raided the spot the other day,” Shamel said, handing Born a fifty-dollar bill. Born grabbed the money and stepped out of the Jeep. He dug in his pocket and switched Shamel’s fifty-dollar bill for a counterfeit fifty dollar bill he had.

  “Dread, gimme fifty,” Born said, holding the money out.

  In a Jamaican accent, the dread asked, “You wan’ chocolate or you wan’ skunk my yoot?”

  Born tried to look in the dread’s face who had his head down, looking in a sandwich bag that contained small plastic bags with weed in it. He thought the dread sounded as if he were trying to hide his real voice. When he asked Born what he wanted, it sounded like a female trying to deepen her voice. Born ignored the thought, thinking it’s probably him tripping off the dust he smoked before he showed up at his grandmother’s house for dinner.

  “Let me get that chocolate,” Born replied.

  For a split second, Born took his eyes off the dread to look up and down the block for cops or an enemy. It was in that split second that he felt something slam into his temple after hearing a
loud bang in his ears. Then everything went blank.

  The dread stood over Born’s body with a .357 Magnum Blue steel in his hand now pointed down at Born. The dread put five more bullets into his body before running off and jumping into a candy-apple red Lexus parked a few spaces behind where Shamel parked his Jeep. When Mecca jumped in her Lexus, she removed the wig and followed Shamel’s Jeep happy, that everything went as planned.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “…stay civilised, time flies/incarcerated, your mind dies.

  Nas

  “Maybe you need to wear a suit more often,” Mecca said to Shamel, who was dressed in a black double-breasted Italian silk suit. He smirked at her, watching the reflection in the full-length mirror in front of him.

  “The only time you’ll see me in a suit is at times like this.”

  “That was a good deal they gave us for a double funeral,” Mecca commented.

  Shamel’s grandmother wanted funeral services for her two grandsons together. When she received the call about Kaheem, she didn’t cry. She had mentally prepared herself for that call when they first came to live with her. Then the call came about Born, which caught her by surprise because they both got murdered a few hours apart from each other, but not together. She did eventually shed a few tears for her grandsons and prayed.

  “Lord, I know those children were always up to no good, and some hardheaded ones, too. But I beg you, Lord, to forgive them and have mercy on their souls.”

  Mecca wore a black Chanel dress that reached her knees and hugged her curves. She complimented her dress with two-karat, princess-cut diamond earrings and a black Chanel pocketbook. Her black four-inch heels were by Gucci.